Page 67 of Wicked Beasts
“Well?” Mrs. Wong asks, her voice edged with curiosity, though her posture is stiff.
Mortimer doesn’t answer immediately. He lingers, his gaze fixed on Mrs. Wong with an unsettling intensity, his eyes hollow and sunken, matching the pallor of his ghostly skin. The heavy silence between them stretches unbearably before he finally shifts his focus to me, his lips curling into a thin, unreadable line.
“You should get ready for dinner,” he says finally, his voice colder than the chilling air seeping through the vents. His wordsfeel like ice, detached and final. “Dr. Shadow will be joining you this evening instead.”
A deep frown creases my brow.
“No. It’s Tristan’s?—”
“Mr. Black?—”
“—birthday!” I snap, cutting him off as I ignore Mortimer’s correction. “What did he do to him?”
Without another thought, I push past Mortimer as I heave the bag into his arms and shove the door open with as much force as I can muster.
Neither he nor Mrs. Wong try to stop me.
Fifty-Eight
The cold air spilling from the room slaps my senses as I step into the thickening tension of the east wing. The afternoon light filters through the heavy curtains, its warmth struggling against the pervasive chill that seems to cling to the study. The sun’s rays are partly obscured by the thick fabric, casting a muted, ghostly glow across the disarray. Dr. Shadow’s imposing figure stands at the far side of the room, his back turned to me, as if he’s unaware of my presence—or perhaps choosing to ignore it. His palms are pressed flat against the surface of the desk, his fingers curling over the edge in a tight, almost unnatural grip, as though the very act of holding onto it is the only thing keeping him grounded.
The room itself is a chaotic reflection of the violent energy that just raged through the space. Glass beakers lie shattered across the floor, their jagged shards glinting like scattered fragments of ice. Papers are strewn haphazardly, swirling in the air with a ghostly elegance before settling on the floor, some crumpled, others torn. Chairs have been knocked over, their legs splayed like broken limbs in an awkward, violent sprawl. Even the desk, once pristine and orderly, now bears the marks of a struggle—a deep crack runs down its wooden surface, as thoughit had been struck with unrelenting force. The room feels as though it has borne witness to something both terrifying and inexplicable, a quiet aftermath that still hums with tension. The light, though softened, clings to the edges of the room, reluctant to touch the mess and madness within.
Tristan is nowhere in sight.
A knot of worry tightens in my chest as I clench my fists and move toward Dr. Shadow. My voice comes out tight, demanding. “What did you do to him?”
Dr. Shadow turns his head slowly, deliberately, his gaze flicking over me for barely a second before shifting to Mortimer in the doorway. There’s a fresh cut beneath his left eye, the blood dark against his tanned complexion, catching the light filtering weakly through the window.
It’s then I notice the state of him. His shirt is torn, no longer taut over his muscles but instead hanging loosely, exposing a sheen of sweat on his skin. He stands, muscles shuddering as though he has survived something he never intended to face. His eyes scan me with dismissive exhaustion and scorn.
He turns back to the desk, his movements stiff and deliberate, as if every motion requires effort. I hear the subtle, unsettling crack of bones as his body straightens, and he finally faces me.
“What are you doing in here?” he asks, his voice cold and disdainful, sidestepping my question.
I step closer, unyielding and unwilling to back down. “What did you do to Tristan?” I ask again, the words heavy as he leans back against the desk, as if his body is too exhausted to remain standing on his own. My fists are clenched so tightly at my sides, my fingers tremble, turning pale with the strain, the tension in my hands pulsing with every beat of my heart.
“He is hiding,” Dr. Shadow says, his gaze flicking to Mortimer, who hovers behind me. “Because he is a coward.”
I turn to look at Mortimer, his hollow eyes still fixed on Dr. Shadow, unwavering since I opened the door. Mrs. Wong stands beside him now, her movements tight and nervous, her gaze darting uneasily around the room, as though she doesn’t know where to look or what to think.
The memory of a bloodied, battered body lying limp outside of Gisella’s window suddenly floods my thoughts. I try to push it away, but the image lingers, and I can’t stop myself from imagining Tristan hidden away, locked in some dark corner of this place. My eyes desperately scan the room, hoping to find some sign of where he might be—somewhere he might have been stashed, out of sight, his corpse to become a rotting mess, never to see the light of day again.
I’m not sure what overtakes me in that moment, but before I can stop myself, my hand swings out and sharply connects with the side of Dr. Shadow’s face.
“Tell me where he is!” I scream, my voice raw with desperation as I raise my hand to strike him again.
This time, he seizes my wrist with unexpected strength, yanking me closer with a force that takes me by surprise. His grip doesn’t loosen, and I feel the pressure mounting, a tightness in my wrist making it difficult to move. As I try to twist free, I feel the bones in my wrist begin to crack. His eyes lock onto mine, sharp and unwavering, and the intensity of his gaze sends an unsettling chill through me.
“Hit me again,” he dares, his words a low, menacing hiss. The dangerous edge in his voice slices through my nerves.
“You’re hurting me,” I gasp, my voice soft and strained, the words slipping from my lips with difficulty as I attempt to pull free. My fingers tug weakly at his, but his grip remains unyielding. “Please, let me go.” Tears well at the corners of my eyes, threatening to spill over as I desperately try to break free from his hold. A lightning bolt of pain sparks up my arm.
“You will go get dressed and get ready for dinner,” he commands, his grip tightening further, sending another sharp sting through my wrist. “Do I make myself clear?”
I nod quickly, my gaze dropping to the floor as I try to steady myself in the face of pain. The weight of his presence hangs heavy between us, and I can feel the burn of his stare without looking. Finally, his grip loosens, and I pull my wrist away, his touch lingering on my skin. Without a second thought, I turn and hurry toward my room, my steps quick and unsteady, the pounding of my heart the only sound in my ears. I don’t dare look back or say another word.
I shut the door behind me and lean back against it, the weight of my body collapsing against the cold wood as I rub at my already-swelling wrist.
